The Seed of Doubt
by Collegekid2006
Summary: When all the evidence points to Henry being a murderer, it's up to Shawn to prove he's innocent. But as the evidence mounts, will even Shawn lose faith in his father?
1. Chapter 1

**Santa Barbara-**** 1984**

"Shawn."

His father's stern voice stopped Shawn in his tracks, halfway up the staircase.

"Yeah?"

He turned around slowly, smiling innocently at Henry, who was looking up at him from the landing.

"Don't 'yeah' me. What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Shawn. You came bolting through here at ninety miles an hour, you're nervous and sweaty, and I saw you throw your baseball bat into the bushes. So don't tell me nothing! What's going on?"

"Nothing! I…"

One look from Henry was enough to silence him. He sighed and looked down at the floor guiltily.

"I hit my baseball through Mrs. Maddock's window. Again."

"I see. And?"

"And?" Shawn scrunched up his nose quizzically. "And what?"

"You tell me."

"And…I'm really sorry?"

"Try again."

"And…I'm going to go back and tell her I'm sorry?"

"And…"

"And… offer to pay for it?"

"Better."

Henry nodded, but then considered for a moment.

"Why?" He asked finally.

"Why what?"

"Why are you going to go back and offer to pay for it?"

Shawn looked confused.

"Because you'll make me?"

Now it was Henry's turn to sigh.

"Sit down, Shawn."

"Can't I just go pay for—"

"Sit!"

Shawn rolled his eyes, but came downstairs and took a seat at the kitchen table across from Henry.

"This isn't about the window," Henry began.

"Oh, good."

Shawn sounded relieved.

"Just listen. This is about you."

"Darn."

"Shawn, you made a mistake. Own up to it. Make it right. But don't do it because I'm making you. Don't do to it because you got caught. Do it because it's the right thing to do. Even if you never get caught. Even if no one will ever know what you did. Do it because it's the right thing to do."

"Even if I get in trouble?"

"You're always in more trouble if you get caught."

"Always?" Shawn asked nervously.

"Always," Henry replied, crossing his arms and giving his son a look that foretold many hours of arduous labor ahead.

"Shoot."

**Santa Barbara- Today**

Henry stopped his painting when he heard Shawn's motorcycle roar into the driveway. He dropped the brush and wiped his hands on his jeans.

Shawn was smiling as he approached, helmet in hand.

A sure sign he was about to ask for something.

"What do you want, Shawn?" He asked.

Shawn pretended to be offended.

"Can't a son just drop by to say hi to his father?"

"No."

"Okay, fine," he dropped the act. "I need to borrow your lawn mower."

"My lawn mower? Why? You live in an apartment."

"I know, but there's this really cute girl who has this thing about--"

Henry held up his hand.

"Never mind. I don't want to know. Just take it. But I want it back by the weekend."

Shawn was nodding in agreement, but Henry could tell he wasn't really listening.

He was already thinking about the girl.

"Ok. Yeah. Sure. No problem."

"With the gas tank filled," he added.

Shawn just kept nodding.

"Uh-huh. Sure."

"And I want you to mow my lawn. This weekend."

He suddenly stopped nodding.

"Come on, now!"

Henry just shook his head, unmoved.

"That's the price. You want it or not? Just how cute is this girl?"

Shawn had to consider carefully for a moment.

"Fine," he finally agreed reluctantly. "But this is extortion."

"Call the police," Henry shrugged. "It's in the garage."

Shawn had it out in a few minutes. He sure got chores done quickly when he was motivated...

As he strapped his helmet back on, it suddenly occurred to Henry.

"Uh, Shawn. Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

Henry gestured at the motorcycle.

"How are you going to get it home on that thing?"

"Right. About that…"

"What?"

"Gus is at work…"

"And?"

"And…"

Shawn just let the thought hang in the air, arching his eyebrows suggestively.

Henry rolled his eyes.

"Put them in the back of the truck," he sighed, fishing his keys out of his pocket.

"Thanks," Shawn grinned, already halfway across the driveway.

As Shawn was loading the lawn mower, Detective Lassiter pulled up. Both Spencers looked at each other questioningly.

"What's he want?" Henry muttered.

"I don't know," Shawn whispered. "But if he's looking for me, I was with you last night between 10 and 1, okay?"

"Shawn…"

Lassiter was already out of his car, crossing the yard. His face was firmly set.

"Hey, Henry," he said, ignoring Shawn.

"Detective."

"What's up, Lassie?" Shawn asked.

"Spencer, look," he glanced over at Shawn gravely. "I'm telling you right now. Stay out of this."

"Stay out of what?"

Lassiter turned back to Henry.

"You read about the body the Girl Scout troop found while they were camping last week?" He asked.

"Sure," Henry shrugged. "Not much of a body, though, according to the paper. Just a decomposing skeleton."

"Yeah. M.E. says the vic's been dead for at least a decade."

"Okay…"

"We got an I.D. back today from the dental records. Frank Kitchel."

"Kitchel?"

Shawn glanced back and forth between Lassiter and his father, who seemed to be communicating without words.

Unfortunately, he was left out of the silent conversation.

"Who's Frank Kitchel?" He asked.

"A drug dealer," Henry answered quietly. "We were getting close to busting him. Big time. But he disappeared a few days before we could get our case set."

"Oh."

"He was murdered," Lassiter added. "Bullet through the skull. Execution-style."

Henry nodded thoughtfully.

"I figured. He must've pissed someone off."

"Henry, he was shot with a .45."

"So?"

"So, you see my problem."

Once again, Shawn was dumbfounded by the unspoken conversation. Their eyes were definitely speaking volumes, but he couldn't figure out what, exactly, they were saying.

"What problem?"

"Your father carried a .45."

"Lots of people have .45's."

Lassiter cocked a knowing eyebrow at Henry.

"Tell him. Or I can."

"Tell me what?"

Shawn was on the verge of losing his mind.

"He threatened you," Henry told him, returning the Detective's searching look. "The day before he disappeared, we had him in interrogation. He knew about you, said if I came after him he'd kill you. I told him if he did, I'd hunt him down and put a bullet through his skull. It's all in the transcript in his file. Which Detective Lassiter has no doubt looked over by now."

Lassiter's jaw set a bit more firmly as he nodded in confirmation.

"You threatened him, Henry. And the next day, he's dead."

"Wait!" Shawn interrupted. "This guy threatened _me_? What did I do to him?"

Henry just waved him off, still scrutinizing Lassiter's increasingly mask-like face.

"I went after bad guys, Shawn. You got threatened a lot. I just never told you."

Shawn was dumbstruck.

He stood, staring disbelievingly at his father for a full minute before he could finally speak again.

"_You never told me_? People threatened to kill me on a regular basis?"

"Semi-regular."

"It is just a non-stop pleasure parade being your son."

Lassiter cleared his throat, and Shawn suddenly realized he was serious about this. He was frowning now, his forehead wrinkled as he quietly pulled out the paper search warrant and handed it to Henry.

"Look. I need your piece. The one you carried. We have to run ballistics. You understand."

Henry nodded impassively. If he was concerned at all about any of this, he certainly wasn't showing it.

"It's in the house."

"I also need you to come down to the station and answer a few question. Okay?"

"Fine."

Lassiter followed Henry into the house, neither man saying another word.

Shawn stayed outside, still trying to absorb everything that had just happened.

"Are we talking dozens of people?" He called after them. "Hundreds? Dad? Come on!"


	2. Chapter 2

Shawn watched his father through the two-way window of the interrogation room as Lassiter questioned him.

It had taken all of his powers of persuasion to convince the Chief to let him stay. She had initially told him to just go home.

"It's not your case, Mr. Spencer. In fact, you being here is the definition of conflict of interest."

"My interests aren't conflicted," he assured her. "Promise. Pinky-swear!"

Shawn offered his pinky as proof, which the Chief declined. But she did finally concede.

"You stand there and say nothing," she ordered, pointing to a place on the floor in front of the window.

"I.A.B. cleared me ten years ago, when he went missing," Henry was saying from his seat while Lassiter paced the room. Both men were cool, having each other sized up perfectly.

Shawn had to admit he was slightly impressed that Lassiter could meet his father's hard, steady gaze evenly without flinching or bursting into flames.

Even he couldn't always do that.

He also had to admit he was a bit impressed that Henry could look at Lassiter and not have the impulse to muss his hair, chuck him gently under the chin like a kid, or find some way to torment him relentlessly.

He definitely couldn't do that.

"I went through all this back then," Henry continued. "You said you read the file. You know that."

"But they didn't have a body back then," Lassiter pointed out. "They had no proof a murder had actually been committed."

"The body suddenly appearing doesn't change the fact that they couldn't place me anywhere near Kitchel on the day he went missing. I was here. Working. Just like every other day."

"Then why don't you just take me back, step-by-step, through that day?"

"It was ten years ago. I know I was working, but that's about it. Do you remember everything you were doing on some random day ten years ago?"

"If it was the day the target of my biggest investigation went missing, I might remember a few details. Yeah."

Henry shrugged, folding his arms stubbornly.

_I know that look. _Shawn thought to himself. _He knows more than he's telling._

"Well, I don't."

_Henry Spencer admitting to forgetting something? What's wrong with this picture…?_

Lassiter wasn't buying it, either.

Shawn shook his head.

Buzz approached the Chief nervously.

"Uh, Chief. The ballistics report you wanted just came in."

He handed her the file, and left, refusing to even look at Shawn.

_Uh-oh._

The Chief was reading the report. Shawn didn't have to see it to know what it said.

Her face told everything.

"It's a match, isn't it?" He asked quietly.

Vick nodded. Stiffly.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Spencer. But it's a perfect match. The bullet that killed Kitchel came from your father's gun. I wouldn't believe it, either, but I'm looking at the report. I don't have a choice, Shawn."

She grabbed her cuffs and went to the door of the interrogation room, pausing before she opened it.

"You can't be here when I come out," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "Until this is completely closed, you can't be around at all anymore. I'm taking you off all cases, just to make sure we have a clean investigation."

She closed the door behind her. Shawn watched her approach Henry, speaking in a low voice…

He left before the cuffs came out.

He left before he could see his father's reaction.

_But I'll be damned if I am off this case…_


	3. Chapter 3

As Shawn slid into the chair and met his father's eyes through the glass partition that separated them, he couldn't help but find the irony of the situation slightly amusing.

Just slightly.

"Come on. Admit it," he grinned, speaking into the phone. "You always assumed when we had this conversation, I'd be the one on that side of the bars."

Henry, however, didn't seem to see the humor.

No surprise there.

"What are you doing here?" He demanded, glowering.

"Oh, I don't know. A prison visit somehow seemed more appropriate then sending a 'Sorry You Were Arrested For Murder' greeting card. Besides, I couldn't decide between the puppies and the duckies. Incidentally, for future reference, when you're hauled in on capital charges, which do you prefer? Keep in mind…the duckies are wearing little bowties, but the puppy card has a clever pun…"

"Shawn."

"What?"

"Shut up."

"Okay."

For a long moment, they regarded each other in silence, until Henry finally shook his head quietly.

"Just go home, Kid."

"Oh, right," Shawn snorted derisively. " Okay. I'll get right on that. I'll go home and watch _The View_ while you get set-up. I don't think so."

Henry leaned in, his face inches from the glass. His voice was suddenly low and urgent.

"I mean it, Shawn. Leave it alone. You have no idea what you're getting into, here. Kitchel wasn't some small-time hood. He was probably the most dangerous dealer on the West Coast. When he said he would kill you, he wasn't trash-talking. He meant it was a phone call away, and I couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. Do you have any idea what it would have taken for someone to have him killed?"

"Apparently, one bullet from your gun."

"This isn't a game. Stay out of it."

Shawn shrugged unblinkingly.

"Okay," he agreed lightly, as if they were debating pizza toppings.

"I'm serious."

"I know you are."

"Stay out of it."

"I will."

"Damn it, Shawn!"

"What?"

"You're lying!"

"Well, duh!"

Shawn leaned back in his chair, a sly grin slowly breaking out across his face as he savored the moment of slight victory.

"There's not a whole lot you can about it, though. Huh?"

"Fine. You're grounded."

"Please. That hasn't worked since I was eleven. Are you going to help me or not?"

"No."

"A name? A clue? A place to start? Anything?"

"I'm not going to help you get yourself killed."

"Okay," Shawn stood and went to hang up the phone. "Have fun in prison, then. Don't forget to count the hats…"

"Sit down."

Henry sighed heavily as Shawn pulled the chair back up to the partition, knowing he had been beaten.

"There are only two questions, here, Shawn. Question 1: Why would someone use my gun to commit a murder?"

"That's a no-brainer. To frame you."

Henry nodded, leaning in once again.

"Question 2: Why would they wait until the body was discovered ten years later? Why not tip off the police the next day? Or even a few months later? Why wait this long?"

For once, Shawn was stumped.  
He considered carefully for a few minutes before answering.

"They're patient?"

"Maybe."

"They didn't really want to set you up."  
"Then why use my gun? I'm not buying it. Come on, you can do better than that."

"The only other possibility…"

Shawn hesitated, but he could see in his father's eyes that he already knew what he was thinking.

"Say it," Henry nodded encouragingly.

"The only other possibility is that you did it."

"There you go. If you're going to do this, Shawn, you're going to do it right. Don't start out with any assumptions. None. Not even that I'm innocent. It's any other case. Look at the evidence objectively, and see where it leads."

"You didn't do it."

"If you don't grant it's even a possibility, you'll never get to the bottom of this. You won't. Every clue, every lead will be tainted. That's it. That's where you start."

He replaced the phone and stood up. Shawn watched him walked away until he disappeared into the cell block.

"That wasn't even a little bit helpful, actually," he muttered to himself before finally standing up and walking out.


	4. Chapter 4

The moment Gus stepped foot into the Psych office that afternoon, he knew something was wrong.

It wasn't just the hundreds of newspapers and internet print-outs that were strewn all over the floor, desk and couch.

It wasn't just because the office was almost eerily silent, without any of the usual background noise of the TV or stereo.

It wasn't even because Shawn was scurrying around on the floor, frantically looking through the papers and then casting them aside, only to look through them again.

Any of those, in and of themselves, could have easily just been Shawn being Shawn. It was something subtler. Something in his eyes, in the way his shoulders slumped as he scrambled on his hands and knees. Something just under the surface that, after more than twenty years, told Gus something very bad had happened.

"Hey. What's going on?" He asked, suddenly concerned, pushing some newspapers off the couch and taking a seat.

"Nothing much," Shawn mumbled, not even pausing his fevered work. "Got a new case…Dad's in jail…the usual…"

It took Gus a while, and a considerable amount of prodding and prompting, but he finally managed to drag the story out of Shawn.

When he was up to speed, he let out a long, low whistle.

"Wow. Heck of a day."

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

Shawn just shrugged, rising slowly, unevenly, to his feet.

"I'd be better if he didn't choose now to start channeling David Caradine. 'That's it. That's where you start.' I mean, what of Kung-Fu, _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_ juju-magumbo is that, anyway?"

"Do you think he was trying to tell you…maybe he did it?" Gus asked hesitantly.

"Gus, please. Sure, he's grumpy….and angry…and, frankly, kind of scary. And, sure, he's subjected me to emotional turmoil that would have sent a normal person crawling into therapy by now…but a cold-blooded killer? There's no way!"

Gus nodded in agreement.

"Okay. Then where do we start?"

He thoughtfully scooped up some of the newspapers and began to skim the articles about the Girl Scout troop finding the body.

"I guess we can talk to the Troop leader."

"Why?" Shawn asked, slumping on the couch next to him.

"I don't know. She found the body."

"She can't tell us anything that's not in the paper."

"Then what's all this?" Gus asked, tossing the newspaper on the floor and picking up a stack of internet print-outs instead.

"Everything I could find on Kitchel. There's not much. Just a few articles from when he disappeared, and one or two from prior arrests. They couldn't make anything stick. He must have been able to buy-off or threaten the juries somehow."

"Inside guys?"

"Undoubtedly. Someone on the force must have been on his payroll."

"Maybe we start there," Gus suggested. "Your Dad still has friends who were on the force with him. Maybe they…"

"Maybe they're the ones who set him up. We can't tip our hand. We can't trust anyone. No assumptions."

"We can't do it alone, Shawn. We don't have a single lead. We don't have a single piece of evidence. We don't have--"

Gus never got to finish his thought, because at that moment the front window shattered in a spray of glass and brick.

Gus was on floor in a flash, ducking and covering his head like he was expecting a bomb to drop. Shawn just sat motionless for a moment, and then as soon as he was sure no more projectiles were coming, calmly walked over and picked up the brick.

"What is it with people breaking that window?" He asked, nimbly unwrapping the paper that had been strapped to the missile.

"Is it the typeface? Do people not like it? I told you we should have picked a different font. I wanted comic sans, but no…"

Gus stumbled cautiously to his feet, his eyes darting around the room as if it might explode at any moment.

"What the heck--"

Shawn already had the message unfurled. A wide grin broke out across his face as he handed it to Gus.

Only two words were scrawled across it.

**TYSON FORREST**

"This, my friend, is what we in the psychic detective business call a lead."


	5. Chapter 5

"You know, there has got to be a subtler way to get our attention," Shawn griped, dropping the brick on the floor and kicking the scattered shards of glass. "A note under the door…an e-mail…a fax, even…"

"Yeah. You'd think," Gus agreed bitterly. "And where the heck is Tyson Forest, anyway? I've never heard of it."

"It's not a place, Gus. It's a name. See, two r's in _Forrest_. He was a cop. I remember him. He retired a few years before my dad did, but I think they're both still part of the same 'Old Cops Who Can't Let Go' poker game."

"So, he might know something?"

"It's somewhere to start, at least," Shawn shrugged, heading for the door. "Which is more than my dad gave me."

Gus followed, stepping delicately over the glass.

"What about the window?" He demanded.

"Leave it. I think it'll still be broken when we get back."

After a quick scan of the Santa Barbara Phone Directory, which Gus always kept handy in his glove compartment, they were on their way.

"What's the plan?" Gus asked as he drove.

"Well," Shawn considered for a moment. "He knows me. But he doesn't know you…"

Gus was already shaking his head emphatically.

"No way, Shawn. Not again. I'm not going to pretend to be an Encyclopedia salesman."

"Fine. How about--"

"Or an IRS agent. I'm pretty sure that one was a felony."

"Okay. There's always--"

"And I'm not going to pretend to be a Jehovah's Witness," Gus insisted with finality. "That one was just creepy. Forget it."

Shawn huffed.

"You're messing with the system, Gus. Don't mess with the system. The system works."

"For once, can't we just go with the direct approach?" Gus pleaded.

"But with the direct approach, you can't be Griswold K. Melonhead."

"I don't want to be Griswold K. Melonhead."

"You could humor me. I _am_ trying to save my dad's life, here."

Gus clenched the steering wheel a bit tighter, gritting his teeth.

"I am not going to be Griswold K. Melonhead."

"Fine," Shawn sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. "We'll go with the direct approach."

They pulled into Tyson Forrest's driveway. For a long moment, they sat silently.

"What would the direct approach be, exactly?" Shawn asked finally.

"I guess we just ask him if he knows anything about Kitchel or your dad," Gus answered doubtfully.

"Okay."

Shawn hopped out of the car and crossed the lawn. By the time Gus caught up, he had already rung the doorbell.

Forrest answered a moment later, and Shawn had to bite back his surprise at the man's appearance. He remembered Forrest vaguely from hanging around the station as a kid, but this was not the young, vibrant officer he had known back then. He was only a few years older than Henry, but he looked downright ancient. Time or tragedy or both had taken its toll, stooping him over as if under a great weight and casting his pale green eyes into a permanent, wrinkled sorrow.

"Hi," Shawn blinked, trying to suppress his shock. "Remember me?"

Forrest nodded slowly.

"Yeah. You're Henry's kid. The psychic. I see you in the paper sometimes. You look like your dad."

Gus coughed loudly, trying to cover-up his laughter, but failing miserably. Shawn glared at him out of the corner of his eye, but ignored the slight.

"Yeah. Henry's kid. That's me. This is my friend, Gus. Actually, I'm here about Henry…can I come in?"

Forrest regarded him suspiciously, blocking the doorway with his arm.

"No. What do you want?"

"I want to know about Frank Kitchel."

At the mention of that name, all the blood drained from Forrest's face. He dropped his arm, glancing around the yard nervously, as if someone might have heard.

"Come in," he motioned, stepping aide.

Shawn and Gus followed him through the house and into the kitchen in complete silence. Every step seemed to be agony for Forrest.

He pulled a chair up to the table, gesturing for Shawn and Gus to do the same.

"He's the body the Girl Scouts found, isn't he? I read about it the other day."

Shawn nodded, wide-eyed, as he sat down.

"How'd you know?"

"I didn't for sure, but I thought it might be. Did they arrest Henry yet?"

"This morning," Shawn nodded again, a cold chill running down his spine.

"Damn."

"Whoever did it used Dad's gun," Shawn added quickly. "I need to prove it wasn't him."

Forrest shook his head sadly.

"I can't help you there, kid."

"Why not?"

"Because. He did it."


	6. Chapter 6

The house fell silent.

So silent that Shawn could hear the gentle ticking of a distant clock in another room.

_Tick._

_Tock._

_Tick._

_Tock._

It seemed to echo incessantly off the walls of his mind.

"What?" He asked finally, feeling the color slowly beginning to return to his cheeks.

"Don't get me wrong," Tyson Forrest continued, glancing at Shawn's tightly clenched fists apprehensively. "The D.A. could rip my toenails out one-by-one and I wouldn't say a word. I didn't rat to I.A.B ten years ago, and I'm not gonna rat to the D.A. now."

Gus was also looking at Shawn's fists, but he was noticing the slight tremor that had settled over his chalk-white knuckles.

"Did he tell you he did it?" Shawn demanded in a hoarse whisper.

"No. He didn't have to."

Forrest settled back in his chair, his faraway eyes reliving some long-suppressed day.

"Look, kid. I was a cop for twenty years. You get an instinct about these things. The day Kitchel vanished, your dad took a three hour lunch. Even before the investigation into Kitchel's disappearance, that struck me funny. Henry never took off like that. Ever. Most days, he didn't even eat. He was too busy saving the world."

Forrest inhaled deeply, as if gathering his thoughts.

"So, when I.A.B. started poking around…talking foul play…I had my suspicions. I didn't tell them anything, of course, but I asked your dad about it. He clamped up tighter than I'd ever seen him. Wouldn't even deny it. Wouldn't say a word. Not that he had to. I knew…I knew."

"But you don't have any proof," Gus asserted, still looking at Shawn. "You didn't see him do it."

"I didn't have to. Kid, it was his gun. You just told me that. Any doubts I had…Look. He was a good cop. The best I've ever known, truth be told. I knew he had a damn good reason to kill that SOB. He must've. That's enough for me. It was always enough for me. But when things in this town get so bad it drives Henry Spencer to murder…I knew it was time to get out. I retired a month later and never looked back. He didn't last much longer. A few years. Even though he'd never say it, I always figured killing Kitchel was the reason he got out so young. The reason he walked away from the only thing he ever really wanted to do. He just never got over it."

The tremors had spread from Shawn's hands through his knees and legs now. The blood had drained from his face again, and he looked like he was on the verge of throwing up. He suddenly stood up, bumping against the table as he stumbled towards the door. Gus was up and following him in a flash.

Shawn paused for a brief moment, bracing himself against the doorway. His eyes fell over the sole picture hanging on the wall. It was of a young man, probably seventeen or so, smiling broadly as he clutched a football under his arm.

His gaze lingered on it for a moment longer than he had intended.

_There's something about it…_He thought to himself.

_Something…_

But he couldn't stop to think about that now.

He fumbled to the front door and tripped down the steps, falling to his knees in the gravel.

_"…if you can't even grant it's a possibility, you'll never get to the bottom of this…"_

_No._

Even as he heaved his guts out on the lawn, part of him didn't believe it.

Part of him refused to believe that his father, the man who had spent twenty years carrying a badge and twenty more trying to guilt him into carrying one, was a murderer.

_No._

_Not Dad..._

_Not Dad..._

_Not even to protect me…_

He didn't want to admit it, but that was what bothered Shawn the most.

_If he did it…it was for me…it was my fault…_

Gus had followed him out of the house, stopping a few strides behind where Shawn had fallen. He didn't say anything. He just stood there, silently watching. Waiting.

Finally, Shawn forced himself to his feet and fell into the car, still pale but not trembling quite as bad. Gus got in after him, quietly pulling away.

"Where do we go from here?" Gus asked once they were out of sight of the house.

Shawn just shook his head slowly.

"There's nowhere to go, Gus. He did it…he tried to tell me…I just didn't listen…"

"That's it, then? You're giving up?"

"What the hell am I supposed to do? There's no other answer! No other solution."

It was Gus' turn to shake his head.

"Wow."

"What?" Shawn demanded.

"Nothing. You just sound like Lassiter."

Shawn's eyes flashed.

"Shut up."

"Well, you do. Next, you'll be telling me to get my nose out of your case or you'll skin me alive and feed me to alligators."

"Stop it!" Shawn's ears were glowing red, a stark contrast to his pallid face. "I'm not Lassie. I just know when I'm beaten."

"Since when?" Gus laughed. "Shawn, I've kicked your butt at every game we've ever played, and you've never once admitted you were even behind, much less beaten."

"You've never beaten me."

"No, Shawn. I've never lost to you. Not once. You've just never stopped doing your stupid victory dance long enough to notice. You always lose, Shawn. You just re-write the rules or BS your way through so somehow…you never lose. The only way to beat you is to convince you you're beaten. I've never been able to do that. Your dad's never been able to do that. Not even Lassie can do that. But you're going to let this Forrest guy do that? Come on, Shawn. You're not beaten. Not yet."

There was a long pause as Shawn stared out the window blankly, letting everything sink in.

"You really don't think he did it?" He asked quietly.

"I think the only thing keeping him from getting a needle in the arm is the fact that you don't think he did it. If you give up, Shawn, he's dead."

Shawn ran his still slightly-trembling fingers through his hair, his mind slowly beginning to clear.

"Then let's go back to Psych. I think I know where to start."


	7. Chapter 7

"Brad Forrest," Shawn said.

He was standing behind Gus in the Psych office, peering over his shoulder as he brushed the shards of broken glass from the chair and switched the computer on.

"Who?" Gus asked with a quizzical glace back.

"Brad Forrest. He was the kid in the picture at Forrest's house. I knew I knew him…I just couldn't figure out who he was at first."

"What picture?"

Gus' eyes were locked intently on the screen now, his fingers flying dexterously over the keys as he searched the web.

"The only picture in the entire house. Didn't you see it?"

"No."

"Well, it was there…I knew I remembered him. Brad was a few years older than me. When we were kids, he used to hang around the station all the time when his dad was working. I think he might have even worked there over the summer sometimes when he got older, doing filing or something."

"'Was' a few years older?" Gus repeated with raised eyebrows, still not taking his eyes off the computer as he scrolled through and rejected hundreds of webpages.

"Yeah. He died a while back. Wrapped his car around a tree, I think. Dad told me when it happened…"

"Yeah," Gus nodded, finally finding what he was looking for. "Here it is."

He pulled up an old newspaper article and scanned it quickly.

"Sounds like he was rip-roaring drunk, out cruising…missed a curve…"

"But look at the date, Gus," Shawn said, tapping the monitor. "Less than a month after Kitchel disappeared. And Forrest said he retired a month after Kitchel…"

Shawn turned away from the screen, closing his eyes and trying to clear his head.

"I knew he was lying about something," he mumbled. "He didn't retire because of Dad…he retired because his son died."

"Why would he lie about that?"

Shawn opened his eyes again thoughtfully.

"I don't think he was lying. Not really. I think it's denial."

"There can't be a connection between the two, can there?" Gus wondered, standing up and crossing the room. "Between Kitchel and the accident, I mean."

"I don't know," Shawn shook his head slowly.

Gus could see the wheels turning, the plan slowly forming, in Shawn's mind.

He knew the exact moment it had taken shape, because Shawn's eyes flashed and the edges of his mouth flickered up. Gus had seen that look enough times to know what was coming next.

"I think I feel a psychic vision coming on…"

Twenty minutes later, they strolled into the SBPD. They were immediately spotted by Chief Vick, who glared angrily at them.

"My office. Now." She snapped.

They followed her contritely, taking a seat as she shut the door behind them.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Spencer?" She demanded.

Shawn just shrugged, appearing completely unshaken.

"Oh, you know…I thought I'd just stop by…check on your Chi…maybe cleanse an aura or two while I was here…"

"I told you that you were off all cases."

"You think we're here for a case?" Shawn laughed, attempting to sound natural, but missing by a wide margin. "Isn't that funny, Gus? She thinks we're here for a case…"

Gus didn't respond.

Shawn kicked him sharply in the ankle.

"Ow! Yeah…funny…ha." Gus laughed bitterly, rubbing his ankle and shooting death rays at Shawn with his eyes.

"We're not here for a case," Shawn continued, ignoring both sets of angry eyes that were fixed on him. "Like I said…we're here for your Chi."

Suddenly, he gasped and gripped the arms of his chair tightly, as if he'd been overtaken by a great pain.

"I'm getting something…" he groaned, his hand pressing his temple. "Green…some kind of black ham…Redwood…Sherwood…Forrest! Forrest! Someone named…Brad Forrest…"

He opened his eyes a crack, just enough to see the Chief without her knowing he was looking at her.

She was leaning across her desk, watching him with rapt attention.

"Brad Forrest?" She repeated. "Tyson Forrest's son? The one who was killed in a car wreck? I remember when that happened…"

"I'm getting…alcohol…drugs…in the car…" He pressed on. She was nodding, still looking nonplussed.

"He was drunk and high on everything under the sun. But it was ten years ago. Pretty cut-and-dry."

"Something's wrong! Something's…wrong….there's more to it than that…."

Shawn was on his knees on the floor now, pretending to be writhing in pain, milking every last moment. Gus just rolled his eyes at the histrionics.

"You have to re-open the case, Chief…there's something else there…"

"What is it, Mr. Spencer?"

"I…don't know…something…"

"I can't reopen a ten year old drunk driving crash because of 'something'. I need something concrete."

Shawn stood up, breaking his trance.

"How about this, then? I think he killed Frank Kitchel."


	8. Chapter 8

"What?" Karen asked, stunned.

"What?" Gus parroted from his chair, equally stunned.

"I think he killed Kitchel," Shawn repeated, more confidently this time. "Or he had something to do with it, at least."

"Do you have any evidence?" The Chief demanded.

Shawn hesitated.

"No."

"Then why--"

"Look," he rested his hands on her desk, his fists clenched into tight, tense balls. "My dad said there were two questions in this case. One of them is why someone who was setting him up would wait for ten years for the body to be discovered. Why didn't they tip the police off? Answer: They were dead! It's the only answer that makes sense! Brad Forrest killed Kitchel, but smashed into a tree before he could follow-through with his plan to set my dad up for it. The timing of the accident is too perfect to be a coincidence. There has to be a connection between it and the murder."

"It's an interesting theory, Mr. Spencer," the Chief admitted with a pensive nod. "But why would Brad Forrest want to kill Kitchel? There's no evidence he even knew him. What was his motive?"

Shawn shrugged.

"I have no idea."

"Then at least tell me why he would want to frame your father for it."

Again, Shawn seemed at a loss.

"No clue."

"Then at least tell me how he did it with your father's gun."

"I don't know."

"Then why should I--"

"Because," Shawn cut her off sharply. "You don't believe my father is a murderer anymore than I do. You know there has to be another explanation."

Karen sighed deeply, leaning forward and placing her hand gently on top of Shawn's.

"Shawn, it doesn't matter what I believe. It doesn't matter what I know. It only matters what I can prove to the D.A….and right now, I can't prove anything."

Shawn pulled his hand away from her sympathetic touch, looking down on her with smoldering defiance.

"Of course you can't prove anything. He's not counting on you to prove anything. He's counting on _me_, Chief. For once in my life, my dad is counting on me."

His hands were trembling again, Gus noticed as Shawn slowly relaxed his white-knuckled fists and fell back into his chair, his eyes still locked with the Chief's.

"I'm going to get to the bottom of this," he promised spitefully. "You can't stop me from looking into it, Chief. But you can help me. Please. Help me."

She couldn't meet his eyes anymore. She had never heard him sound so pleading, so helpless…

Her heart felt like it had been ripped out, but there was nothing she could do.

He wasn't a cop.

There was a conflict of interest.

Her hands were tied.

"I can't help you, Mr. Spencer."

"I just need the file on the accident. That's all."

She shook her head firmly.

"No."

He stood up, his eyes glowing like passionate, hateful embers.

"Then you're not the cop he always said you were."

He spun on his heel and marched out, with Gus only a few steps behind.

She sat silently for a long time, her eyes closed as she mulled everything over.

Finally, she picked up her phone.

"Carlton? I need you to get a file on a car accident from ten years ago…Bradley Forrest. I'm going down to the prison to talk to Henry Spencer. I want it on my desk before I get back."

She didn't wait for a response before she dropped the receiver back into its cradle.

She grabbed her jacket and walked quickly out the door to her car.

Henry looked older.

As she sat across from him, gazing at him through the glass, she couldn't help noticing it.

He looked older.

Tired.

Hard.

She could hear the strain in his voice, even through the phone.

"Hi, Karen."

"Henry."

"What are you doing here?"

He wasn't looking at her. His eyes were staring vacantly at the table.

"Henry," she asked in a low voice. "Did Brad Forrest kill Frank Kitchel?"

He looked up, for once in his life unable to hide his surprise.

"What?"

"You heard me."

His eyes flashed, then immediately went dead.

She couldn't read anything in them anymore.

"Where did that come from?"

His voice was suddenly hard.

"Shawn told me. He doesn't have any proof yet…is it true?"

"How the hell would I know?"  
Karen just glared.

"Henry, please. If you didn't do it, someone else took your gun and shot him, then put it back. Do you seriously expect me to believe that the next time you picked it up you didn't notice it had been fired? You could've smelled the powder a mile away."

Henry shrugged, his face setting into an impassive mask.

"I might not have noticed."

"You notice everything, Henry. You always have. If someone fired your gun, you would know. And it wouldn't take much for you to figure out who did it. So tell me. Was it Brad Forrest?"

Henry sighed, his eyes finally meeting hers directly.

"He's dead, Karen."

"I know."

"What good would it do now? What's the point?"

"It would save you from getting a needle in the arm, Henry."

He shook his head, his eyes suddenly faraway.

"Were you there the day Tyson got the call?" He asked quietly.

"No."

"I was…I was standing next to him. I saw the look in his eyes…that kid was his life, Karen. Tyson died the moment he got the news, too. His heart was still beating, he was still breathing…but he was dead. I could see it. I watched him die. And it wasn't just because he lost his son. It was how he lost him…so damn stupid. So damn stupid…"

He paused, and Karen could see the memories flooding his mind.

"He was a good cop. A damn good cop. And you want me to tell him that his son died not only a drunken moron but a murderer? A murderer who tried to frame a cop? Why? It wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't bring anyone to justice. It's too late for that. It would just kill Tyson all over again. I can't do that to him. No one deserves to have to remember their son that way."

Karen leaned in, her voice urgent and pleading.

"Henry, you're going to be convicted! You're really going to get a lethal injection because of your goddamn honor code?"

Henry leaned back, smiling palely.

"No. Shawn's on the right track. The kid's sharp, Karen. Sometimes. He'll find what he needs. He'll get his proof. He always does...But it won't come from me. It can't come from me. It has to come from Shawn."


	9. Chapter 9

"Shawn? What are we doing?" Gus asked, gripping the steering wheel, ready to get on with the investigation.

But they weren't moving.

They were still sitting in front of the SBPD, where they had been sitting for a good ten minutes.

Ever since they had stormed out of the Chief's office.

"Wait for it…" Shawn murmured, waving Gus off as his eyes watched the front door of the station intently.

"Wait for _what_?"

"_That_!" He grinned victoriously as Chief Vick strolled out the door and got into her car, peeling away as if she had an urgent appointment to get to.

"Where's she going?" Gus wondered.

"To see my dad, probably to find out what he knows about Brad Forrest. Where else?"

"That sounds like a good idea, Shawn. Is there any reason we're not doing that?"

"Gus, please," Shawn snorted. "Why waste our time? Clearly, for whatever Henry Spencer reason he's concocted in his twisted little mind, he's not going to help me on this."

"But—"

But Shawn wasn't listening anymore. He had already stepped out of the car and was heading back into the station.

Gus followed, once again completely in the dark.

He was starting to get used to it…

Shawn had ducked stealthily behind a wall by the time Gus caught up to him inside the station. His back was pressed firmly against it, his ears perking at something he was listening to.

As Gus sidled up alongside him, he heard Juliet's voice from the other side.

"…file you wanted…" she was saying to someone.

"It's not mine," the other voice…Lassiter?...answered. "Put it in the Chief's office."

A second later, Juliet was crossing the station. She went into the Chief's office, dropped the file on her desk, and left again, leaving the door just slightly ajar.

"Dude…" Shawn whispered eagerly. "That's gotta be it."

"What?" Gus whispered back.

"The Brad Forrest accident file…I knew she was going to look into it! I have to get in there."

"Are you insane?" Gus hissed. "You're not even supposed to be here at all!"

"The answer's in there, Gus…or at least part of it…it has to be."

"You can't break into her office, Shawn…again."

"I can if you keep Lassie distracted."

Gus gritted his teeth, already knowing he didn't have a choice.

Not this time.

"How long?"

"Five minutes, tops."

"Fine. But make it fast!"

Shawn nodded, pushing Gus away from the wall. Gus inhaled deeply, steadying his nerves before stepping out and turning the corner, almost colliding with Detective Lassiter.

"Guster?" Lassiter exclaimed, startled. "What are you doing here?"

"Ummm…"

Gus quickly positioned himself so that Lassiter's back was to the Chief's office. He could already see Shawn, crouching low and darting across the station.

"Never mind," Lassiter rolled his eyes impatiently, starting to turn around and walk away. "I don't have time."

"Actually, I have a question for you," Gus said quickly, the words pouring out of his mouth before his brain could stop them.

"What?" Lassiter turned back around, sounding annoyed and looking downright piqued.

Shawn was in the Chief's office now, just starting to leaf through the file…

Gus' eyes darted back and forth between his friend and the harried detective standing in front of him.

He just had to stall him for a few minutes…

"Umm…what would it take to get into the Academy?" He asked, saying the first thing that popped into his head.

It seemed to do the trick.

Lassiter paused.

"The Police Academy?" He cocked a wary eyebrow. "You?"

"Sure. Me. Yeah. Why not?" Gus shrugged.

"For starters, the idea of you carrying a gun…"

Gus pretended to be offended as he glanced over Lassiter's shoulder again.

Shawn was still in the office…still looking at the file…

_What the heck is taking him so long?_

"I could carry a gun," he insisted without much conviction.

"Not in my city."

"Actually, it's just a matter of applying for a permit…" Gus babbled on, not even sure what he was saying anymore.

He just kept talking…something about permits and the California penal code… until Shawn replaced the file and slipped out of the Chief's office, making a break for the door.

"Guster!" Lassiter snarled, finally fed up with listening to him ramble.

"Huh?"

"Forget it. Forget the gun permit….forget the Academy…forget everything. Just…forget it."

"Okay."

"And for God's sake, the next time you have a question…find O'Hara."

"Right."

Lassiter shook his head and stalked away.

Gus walked quickly to the door, not stopping or looking back until he got to the car.

"What did you find out?" He asked Shawn as he pulled away.

"Not a lot," Shawn admitted. "The accident looks pretty straight-forward. There's not much more in the report than was in the paper."

"Then it's a dead-end?"

"Not quite. It turns out Brad Forrest has an arrest record. Six months before he died, he was arrested on possession charges. He was never arraigned. His dad probably pulled some strings…"

"So? They found drugs in his car, too. He used. What does that have to do with—"

"Guess who he was arrested _with_?" Shawn pressed on.

"Kitchel?" Gus guessed.

"No. Denny Morgan."

"Denny Morgan?" Gus repeated, his eyebrows arching. "As in the dealer they busted two years ago? Big trial…witness tampering…_that_ Denny Morgan?"

"Yep."

"What does that mean?"

"It means," Shawn considered thoughtfully, "that I think I know why my dad told me to stay out of this."


	10. Chapter 10

"We're going back?" Gus groaned, pulling away from the curb as Shawn revealed the plan.

"We don't have a choice," Shawn said decidedly, resting his head against the seat's neck rest.

"But you said yourself that Tyson Forrest has spent the last decade in denial about his son. How much help can he possibly be? Does he even know what really happened?"

"I don't know," Shawn admitted. "But right now, he's our only hope. At least this time, I know what questions to ask."

"You do?"

Shawn nodded slowly.

"I think so…"

Tyson Forrest was sitting in an old rocking chair on his front porch as Shawn and Gus pulled up. His slippered feet moved rhythmically across the faded wooden planks, causing the chair to squeak as he slowly rocked back and forth, back and forth.

"You're back," he mumbled as they approached, looking somewhat less than ecstatic to see them again.

"Yeah," Shawn agreed quietly. "We're back."

Forrest stopped rocking and nervously drew his feet up underneath the chair, the muscles in his legs tensing as if he was preparing to suddenly make a run for it.

"Nothing's changed, you know." He told them. "Nothing's changed."

Shawn leaned against the railing, doing his best to smile reassuringly at him.

"I know. I'm not here about my dad. I'm here in my official capacity as a psychic-slash-all-around spirit medium."

"Oh, are you?" Tyson laughed. His legs seemed to relax as he resumed his absent, almost lethargic, rocking.

"Yeah. I have a message from your son. Brad. Do you want it?"

Shawn didn't have to turn around to know that Gus was glaring at him. He could feel the heat from his critical eyes warming the back of his neck, but he chose to ignore it.

There just wasn't any other way to do this.

All the color had disappeared from Tyson's face. His fingers had curled around the arm of the chair, clutching it like a life preserver.

"What?" He asked, his eyes brimming with a hope Shawn could immediately tell he hadn't felt in ten years.

He tried to ignore the surge of guilt at his slight fib and pressed on, determined that Tyson Forrest held the key to saving his father, whether or not he realized it.

_There's no other way… _

_I have to do it… _

"A message." Shawn repeated. "From your son. Do you want it? If you don't, I'll just leave."

It was a hollow promise. He knew there was no way Forrest was going to ignore a message from his son. There was no way he was going to tell them to leave.

He nodded eagerly, leaning so far forward that Shawn briefly thought he might fall out of his chair.

"Shawn!" Gus whispered harshly. "What are you _doing_?"

But Shawn pretended like he didn't hear. He knelt next to Forrest, taking a deep breath before continuing.

"Okay," he agreed. "I can give it to you. But before I do, I need you to do something."

"What?" Tyson asked, clearly willing to do whatever it took.

"I need you to let me cleanse your aura."

Tyson laughed.

"Are you serious?"  
Shawn nodded.

"You won't be able to receive the message until your aura is completely cleansed."

Tyson searched Shawn's face, looking for any sign of joking or insincerity. Unable to find anything but complete earnestness, he finally shrugged and leaned back in his chair.

"What do I have to do?" He asked.

"Just close your eyes." Shawn replied.

Forrest did.

"Now what?"

"Now you just have to remember…"

"Remember what?"

"Remember what happened the day Brad died."

Tyson's entire body stiffened, as if he'd just been slapped.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"I--"

"You have to."

Tyson inhaled painfully, his fingers twitching as they dug into the wooden arm of his chair. He hadn't let himself even think about it in ten years…

Ten years…

"I was at work…" he began finally.

"I know."

"I…was with your dad. We were talking about a case or something…I don't know…the phone rang…"

"Brad was dead." Shawn concluded for him.

"Yeah…car accident…drugs…alcohol…_my_ Brad…he was supposed to go to college…"

Tyson's voice drifted off. He opened his eyes again, anger suddenly boiling beneath them.

"Goddamn drugs…"

Shawn nodded, placing his hands gently on either side of Forrest's head. He closed his eyes, 'reading' his mind.

"But that wasn't his first time getting in trouble with drugs…" he said quietly.

"No."

"I'm seeing…an arrest…"

"I got him off…pulled some strings…"

"But he wasn't alone," Shawn continued, his eyes squeezing tightly in concentration.

"No. It was him and some dealer…he owed him money…a lot of money…"

"I'm seeing that…he asked you for the money…"

"But I wouldn't give him any…" Forrest nodded. "He said he was in over his head…the dealer was going to kill him…"

"He asked everyone he knew for money. Didn't he?" Shawn asked, withdrawing his hands from Forrest's head.

Forrest went pale again, shaking his head vehemently.

"I don't know…"

Shawn stood up and wiped his hands on his jeans.

"But he _did_ ask my dad, didn't he?"

"I don't--"

"But you saw him, didn't you?" Shawn pressed. "The day Kitchel disappeared? You saw him talking to my dad, just before he took his three hour lunch."

Forrest's nails had left deep grooves in the arm's chair. He gritted his teeth, barely able to squeeze his denial out.

"No--"

Shawn's mind was working overtime as all the pieces finally began to fall into place.

"Except my dad wouldn't give him any money, either…" he murmured. "But he _would_ go try to knock some sense into a drug dealer…he's just that stupid. _That's_ where he really was during those three hours, isn't it? Trying to convince Denny Morgan to lay off Brad…"

Tyson stood up, trembling in rage.

"Shut up!" He shouted, heading for the door. But Shawn blocked his way.

"But Brad didn't tell my dad the whole truth, did he?" He growled. "Denny Morgan wasn't really going to kill him. Not anymore. Not when Brad could do the one thing no one else could…stop both Kitchel and my dad in one fell swoop. It was no secret Kitchel was going down…my dad had him in interrogation the day before. It was just a matter of time before he had his case set. And if Kitchel went down, there was always the chance he'd take down some other dealers with him. He must have had dirt on all of them. Denny Morgan wasn't about to risk that, or risk my father putting a case together against him, too. So he told Brad he'd let him off the hook if he killed Kitchel and framed my dad for the murder. Of course, Brad could do it easily. He was always at the station. All he had to do was get my dad away from the station for a few hours, away from his gun…then break into his locker and put it back before anyone missed it. Of course, he didn't count on dying before he had the chance to finish his plan and tip off the cops."

Tyson's hands were over his ears now, clawing at them as he tried to drown out the memories he had worked so hard to repress.

"No!"

"But you saw him, didn't you? You saw him talking to my dad right before he left! You figured it all out after Kitchel disappeared!"

"Yes!"

Tyson's arms dropped dejectedly by his sides, his chest heaving with each labored breath.

Shawn blinked, breathing for the first time in what felt like forever.

"Then my dad didn't do it." He concluded quietly. "My dad didn't kill anyone."

"No."

Shawn looked at Tyson, who suddenly seemed to have shriveled up into nothing.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, realizing for the first time what this man had been through.

He was surprised that he really meant it.


	11. Chapter 11

Shawn turned off the lawn mower when he saw the truck pull into the driveway.

As his father made his way across the lawn towards him, Shawn tried not to notice that he'd lost at least ten pounds and that he had a nasty-looking gash above his right eye. He tried not to notice that every step he took was laboriously slow, as if he'd aged twenty years in the last week.

Shawn _tried _not to notice, but of course he noticed, anyway.

Henry stopped about ten yards away, glancing down at his watch and then back up at his son.

"It's Sunday, Shawn." He said in the dissatisfied tone Shawn knew all too well.

"Yeah," he agreed, for once undaunted by his father's impending disappointment. "It is."

"You were supposed to mow the lawn on Saturday. That was the deal."

"I was kind of busy," Shawn retorted. "You know, with the whole getting you off Death Row thing."

"Don't be dramatic. I wasn't on Death Row."

"You were damn close!"

"You still could have mowed the lawn."

"Fine," Shawn huffed. "I'll remember that the next time you're charged with murder."

Henry just grunted, looking down at his feet.

For a moment, it almost seemed like he wanted to say something. His lips parted, the words poised to spring out…but he quickly snapped his jaw shut again and jammed his hands in his pockets, pushing past Shawn and heading to the house.

"The Chief told me what you said, you know." Shawn called after him.

Henry paused, slowly turning around again.

"What did she tell you?" He asked in a low, almost concerned, voice.

"That you kept your mouth shut because of some damn misguided cop loyalty."

Henry nodded thoughtfully, relief settling over his face.

"Yeah."

"But I don't buy it," Shawn added, crossing his arms skeptically.

"You don't buy _what?_"

"I don't buy you going to jail to spare some cop's feelings."

"Really." Henry replied flatly, seemingly unperturbed by his son's lack of faith.

"You got played, Dad. By a kid! He set you up, and you walked right into it."

"So?"

"So, I think your silence had more to do with your wounded cop pride than some altruistic sense of cop loyalty."

"Shawn," Henry sighed. "You can think whatever the hell you want."

"I will!"

"I know."

Their eyes locked, and once again Shawn tried not to notice the dark circles under his father's eyes or the deep creases in his forehead that hadn't been there a week ago.

"Finish the lawn, Kid." Henry ordered finally, breaking eye-contact as he tried to actually get inside the house this time.

But Shawn's voice once again stopped him in his tracks before he could take three steps.

"Would you have done it, Dad?"

Henry paused, refusing to turn around this time.

"Would I have done what?" He asked dully, as if didn't already know what Shawn was after.

Shawn silently stepped between him and the house, searching his face for the answer Henry didn't want to give.

"Would you have killed Kitchel if Brad Forrest hadn't gotten to him first?" Shawn pressed, needing to hear the answer…needing to know the truth.

But Henry didn't answer. For a long minute, he didn't say anything at all. He just stared vacantly at the freshly-cut grass, refusing to even meet his son's gaze.

"I don't know." He mumbled.

"Yes, you do."

"I don't!" Henry insisted, finally looking up at Shawn. "I can't tell you I wouldn't have, Kid. If he killed you…I don't know what I would have done."

"But you might have?"

"Shawn," Henry groaned wearily. "I don't know. And I sure as hell didn't want to find out."

"Is that why you retired early?" Shawn asked quietly, his eyes growing wide. "Did you get out because of me?"

"It was close, Kid…" Henry murmured. "You don't know how close it was that time. If Brad Forrest hadn't killed him first…it was a phone call away. A phone call, Shawn. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop it."

Shawn blinked, suddenly seeing his father in a different light.

"You walked away because of me?" He repeated, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

Henry shrugged, finally managing to step around Shawn and get to the front door.

"If I say yes, will you just mow the damn lawn already?" He muttered, slamming the screen door behind him.

Shawn shook his head, smiling quietly to himself as he started the lawn mower up again.

* * *

_One week earlier…_

"Are you sure about this?" Juliet asked, stepping out of the car and joining her partner on the sidewalk.

"Of course I am!" Lassiter growled, tying the paper to the brick with a piece of string. "You know Spencer isn't going to let this go _that_ easily! You know he's investigating right now with whatever psychic voodoo-mumbo-jumbo crap he does in there…it's just a matter of time before he starts harassing me with his damn visions…"

"But the Chief pulled him off all cases."

"Please!" Lassiter snorted. "Since when has that ever stopped him before?"

"Never…" Juliet admitted.

"There you go."

He raised the brick over his shoulder, ready to heave it at the Psych window.

"What did you write on the paper?" Juliet asked.

He lowered it again.

"Tyson Forrest." He answered.

"Who's Tyson Forrest?"

"Former cop. He was on IAB's suspect list ten years ago, when Kitchel first disappeared. His son had some drug arrest or something…but he was cleared. It's a dead end. But it should keep Spencer occupied and out of my hair for a few days while I close the case. _Without _him or his visions."

"But he's a psychic." Juliet reminded him. "Won't he know it's a fake lead?"

"It'll work, O'Hara." Lassiter insisted stubbornly, once again raising the brick over his shoulder.

"You can't break their window!" Juliet gasped. "That's vandalism!"

Lassiter sighed shortly.

"I'm not going to break their window. It's bullet-proof glass. The brick is just going to bounce off, but it'll make a loud enough noise to get them out here."

"It's not bullet-proof." Juliet told him.

"Of course it is! After all the people who have tried to kill them? What kind of morons would they have to be to have a front window that's _not _bullet-proof?"

"I'm telling you. It's not bullet-proof." Juliet insisted, shaking her head.

"We'll see."

Lassiter hurled the brick.

A moment later, the window exploded in a hail of glass.

"Crap." Lassiter groaned. "I forgot. They're morons."


End file.
